


Homo Bulla Est (Man Is A Bubble)

by oceaxe



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-17 23:25:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13669473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe
Summary: Or: Five times Eames got one over on Bubbles, and one time Bubbles turned the tables on him.In which Eames discovers Arthur's old military nickname and uses the information to prick Arthur's bubble of invulnerability.Written for Eames' Stupid Cupid 2018, for the prompt "bubbles."





	Homo Bulla Est (Man Is A Bubble)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [teacuphuman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/gifts).



> FOR TEACUPHUMAN, the best teacup human of them all!! Cheers, darling, and Happy Valentine's Day. I wuv you. (I also may have taken this prompt a little too far)
> 
> Thanks to Amorette and Brookebond for the beta/cheerreading!

1.

“So until further notice, I need you guys to come to me first with your ideas for ‘improving’ the work space,” Arthur sniped. This job was going to shit and the worst part was that it wasn’t even Eames’ fault. Not in any way that Arthur could openly blame him for. He was just always hovering on the edges of Arthur’s field of vision, always on the verge of penetrating his personal space. It set him on edge.

Everyone was going back to their little corners of the improvised space except for Eames and Soriya, who were off to one side of the table housing the model. Eames was leaning against the table with his arms crossed over his chest and Soriya was laughing at something Eames had just said. Arthur caught something about _the housing bubble, the dotcom bubble_. “What’s next, the bitcoin bubble?” Soriya laughed again and replied playfully, “The tulip bubble?” Eames cut a look over to Arthur, a slight smile on his lips.

Arthur blanched and looked away quickly. Oh no. It was probably a fluke. It was nothing. Eames couldn’t know. 

Eames _couldn’t_ know about his nickname. His absurd, humiliating nickname. 

Two hours later, Soriya was animatedly in discussion with Terrance, and Eames was reclining in his chair, making the Office Depot reject look like a throne, manspreading with his file resting on his belly. Per usual. Arthur pretended not to notice that Eames wasn’t even pretending to look at the file, instead gazing speculatively at him. 

Five minutes after that, Eames was leaning over Arthur’s shoulder and Arthur was flinching away, irritation warring with panic. 

“Oh, sorry,” Eames said, “am I in your _bubble_? My apologies.” He backed away incrementally but Arthur could still feel his bulk hovering behind him. “We Europeans have different notions of private space.” 

“You’re not European, you’re British,” Arthur said, closing his laptop with a snap, heart racing. “What do you want, Eames?” 

“Just taking orders for the lunch run. What say you?” He produced a takeaway menu like a sleight of hand trick and pressed it into Arthur’s hand as he walked away. “When you figure out what you want, text me,” he said, the door clicking shut behind him. 

Arthur stared after him. He couldn’t know. _Could_ he?

He decided to postpone judgment for the moment. He was probably just being overly sensitive.

Eames returned with a huge brown sack of food from the Thai place in the strip mall and two huge plastic cups with colorful straws.

Arthur watched as Eames took a long sip from his drink and sauntered over to him, lips pursed around the straw. “Got you one,” he said, thrusting a cup at Arthur and smirking while taking another languid suck. He accepted the drink without looking at it, as he was having some difficulty pulling his gaze from Eames’ mouth.

“What is it?” he asked tonelessly.

“You’ve never had bubble tea?” Eames asked, eyes wide with false innocence. Then he winked. 

Fuck. 

 

2\. 

“Bubbles” tormented Eames day and night. On the one hand, its failure to make intuitive sense was commonplace, in the way that nicknames often didn’t make sense unless you’d been in on the joke. On the other hand, Eames hated not being in on the joke. Was it a reference to Arthur’s widely-lampooned and badly-concealed obsession with Lady Gaga? She’d worn that bubble dress, hadn’t she? 

His joy at discovering Arthur’s old nickname was dampened by his inability to determine how it had been acquired. What if it wasn’t true? It seemed too good to be true. 

So he’d tested the waters with a few casual references to various forms of bubbles, his intel confirmed by Arthur’s tight lips and stiff shoulders and wildly expressive scowl. Delighted beyond expression, Eames had then gotten the rest of the team in on it. He hadn’t explained why, but nobody questioned his offer of a tenner for every time they could manage to say “bubbles” within earshot of Arthur. It had been grand fun for about a week, watching Arthur descend into a form of benign madness. Eames couldn’t get enough of Arthur’s flushed cheeks and the pretty little moue his lips made. 

But when Arthur threatened to garrote the next person who so much as said a word that started with the letter ‘b,’ and then escalated to threats to withhold the payout and blacklist offenders from the dreamshare community, Eames’ fun had ended.

For a while. 

Two weeks ago, Arthur had called him, voice barely managing to scrape past his clenched teeth as he offered Eames another job. He could practically hear Arthur deliberating the strategic value of preemptively forbidding the word “bubble” to cross Eames’ lips.  
Not to worry. He was all done with talking about bubbles. 

So now, here he was, flipping through another file on another forge target, popping a chunk of pink gum into his mouth and waiting for Arthur to look over at him. 

The thing was, he’d been waiting for almost half the day and Arthur wasn’t looking over. Not even when Eames started humming, then whistling, then talking to himself in low, rumbling tones. He’d been fired from jobs for less provocation than that; what was Arthur playing at, ignoring him like this? It simply wouldn’t do.

He chewed his gum angrily, then a bright notion popped into his head. Pun intended.

He blew a huge bubble and snapped it as loudly as he could. Arthur startled and looked over, a healthy scowl forming on his face.

“What was that?” he asked, the words clipped and tense.

Eames shrugged, holding his gaze, and with great pleasure (and Arthur’s full, undivided attention), blew the slowest, largest, most obscene pink bubble he could manage. It was a beauty. It popped and sagged with the weight of its overblown mass, and Eames roped it back into his mouth with his tongue, enjoying the horrified flush that spread over Arthur’s cheeks. 

“Very professional,” Arthur ground out, looking away from Eames’ smug grin. 

Rewarded with that satisfying response, he couldn’t help but keep it up over the course of the job. Usually in the middle of Arthur trying to relay critical information. Guilty snickers from the rest of the team ensued after each popped bubble, closely followed by Arthur scowling and glaring at Eames. He might have gone overboard with it, a bit. Considering that after the 10th or 11th time, Arthur had canceled all discretionary breaks, ordered pho for every meal (even breakfast), and announced that the workday now ended at 2am, since people couldn’t keep their goddamned heads in the game.

Eames didn’t make a lot of friends on that job, sad to say.

 

And he wasn’t hired on Arthur’s next job.

 

3.

Fuck Eames. It would almost be better if he just came out and told everyone. Arthur felt like he could handle that with more aplomb than having to watch Eames’ lush mouth making sensual ‘o’s, his tongue pushing the membrane of gum into place and then blowing… 

He shook his head and reminded himself that the real problem wasn’t the shape of Eames’ mouth, for God’s sake, it was the volume of his mouth. His potentially very loud mouth. Why was he doing this? Had Arthur pissed him off somehow? 

What did Eames _want_?

It was this question that preoccupied him all through the preliminary stages of job prep in Manila, a job that he most certainly hadn’t hired Eames for. It continued to circle in his mind as he pushed open the door of their workspace, an abandoned aircraft hangar. 

A hangar filled with bubbles. Absolutely fucking filled to the metal rafters with fucking bubbles.

A bubble machine was parked in the middle of the concrete floor, whirring happily away and spewing a plague of winking, popping spheres. They floated in the cavernous, sun-streaked space, catching the light and refracting it with little twinkles. It was actually rather beautiful, Arthur admitted to himself.

He smiled, swiping at a bubble that landed on his cheek, then stalked over to the machine and turned it off with a twinge of regret.

 

4\. 

He wasn’t hired for the next job after that, either. 

He’d thought the bubble machine was rather clever, and since he’d sent it ahead of the rest of the team, Arthur should have gotten the message that he wasn’t seriously threatening to reveal his silly secret.

Still—it was too public a message. Maybe something a little more personal this time. 

He engaged a local Taskrabbit, albeit one with B&E skills (not listed on the official website), to slip a bottle of bubble bath into Arthur’s luggage just prior to his flight out to Hyderabad. For that, he received a text: _Good call on the scent, but I’m disappointed in the repetition, Eames. Soap bubbles are soap bubbles. Try harder._

Visions of Arthur in a bathtub, skin covered in fragrant, foamy suds, danced in Eames’ head. He wasn’t sure what the end goal of this game was, anymore, but that didn’t mean he was going to stop playing.

 

5\. 

It wasn’t that he’d forgiven Eames for his juvenile little game. It was only that the next job absolutely couldn’t be done without a forger, a very good forger, and there was no denying that Eames was the best in the business. 

Arthur had been on tenterhooks for weeks, waiting for Eames to spring the next bubble reference on him, but all through the preparatory phase, there’d been nothing. Not even any acknowledgement of Arthur’s coy text. He felt surprisingly let down, which he did his best not to brood over. The joke had gotten stale, obviously. That was all. He should consider himself lucky that Eames had never actually let the secret spill.

He definitely considered himself lucky that Eames was on the job when their architect, who was also to be their dreamer, had a sudden health emergency and had to bow out. 

“I’ll be the dreamer,” Eames had said, voice husky and resolute. 

“You’ll be too busy forging the artist, Eames,” Arthur pointed out without conviction. He couldn’t be the dreamer, himself; the mark was almost definitely militarized and Arthur would need to be poised for action. Their chemist never went under and there was no extractor; they didn’t need one with Eames doing the forge. It had to be Eames, he admitted reluctantly.

“It will be fine, Arthur,” Eames replied, eyes directed at the floor. “I’ve spent far more than my fair share of hours wandering the Louvre, the Met and the various MOMAs, not to mention the Guggenheim. An art museum will be a dawdle.”

They really had no choice in the matter, and Eames was right. There was no one better suited to build a museum on the fly. 

When the time came, Arthur slid into the dreamscape with his pulse thrumming. He had faith in Eames’ skills, but forging and building at the same time was a lot to ask of anyone, even someone as experienced and capable as Eames. 

He landed in a room full of large Dutch masters. The mark had materialized one room beyond, as he could see through the arched doorway against which Eames leaned, in the form of a little-known abstract painter from Finland. Projections milled around, the style of their clothing ranging from the 50’s to the late 90’s. Several of them were already looking at Arthur skeptically, so he turned his attention to the paintings, oils glistening with the patina of age. Very nice, he thought to himself, noting the fine cracks in the paint.

His thoughts were divided between appreciation for Eames’ precise details and the unpleasant aura of suspicion from the projections a few feet away, so it took a moment before the subject of the painting registered.

A cherubic child, clad in blue robes and framed by an enormous cumulonimbus cloud cast a simpering smile at several large bubbles floating to its left, while balancing on an even larger bubble underneath it’s right foot.

“This painting, by Karel DuJardin in 1663, is titled Allegory,” murmured a sleekly-coiffed guide to a few studious-looking tourists. “And this one, to the left, by Bartholomeus Van Der Helst, titled A Boy Blowing Bubbles, is even more typical of the period.” Arthur’s head whipped around to see an impish child, looking directly at the viewer, gamboling in a pastoral landscape, surrounded by bubbles.

“Images of bubbles were largely used in vanitas, a type of symbolic work of art especially associated with 17th-century Dutch still life painting and also common in other places and periods,” the guide said as she led her small group around the room. Arthur trailed them surreptitiously. Surely not all these paintings could contain bubbles. 

But they did. 

“Vanitas is loosely translated from Latin as the ephemeral nature of earthly life and the futility of vanity. In the 17th century, Dutch artists painted children blowing bubbles to convey the brevity of human life, the transience of beauty, and the inevitability of death.”

He looked over his shoulder at the mark and Eames, engrossed in conversation. The projections seemed as fascinated by the bubble-themed portraits as Arthur found himself to be. He wandered away from the guide, her words echoing in his head. _The brevity of human life, the transience of beauty._

As he moved along the gallery, the paintings’ subject shifted from angelic children to adults, sedately or mournfully blowing a solitary bubble in a still, quiet room or study. _The inevitability of death._ Arthur took a step back from a painting that he suddenly realized contained a number of skulls in addition to the ever-present bubbles. “What the fuck, Eames,” he muttered to himself, shaken. 

A projection turned abruptly, giving him a hard stare. He let the tension bleed from his body, let his eyes slide away. The projection lost interest and Arthur left the gallery through a side door, planning to circle back around to the room where Eames and the mark were playing out the drama that would hopefully lead to a monumental payout.

Speaking of monuments, as Arthur left the Dutch masters hall for an atrium, he found himself face to face with a garish, lifesize statue of a man and a chimpanzee, glossy and gilded and horrific. “Jeff Koons, 1988. Michael Jackson and Bubbles. Porcelain and gold,” read the placard. Arthur felt a wry smile pulling at his lips. Eames hadn’t lost his sense of humor, then. Good. 

The next gallery held a series of photographs of an impeccably dressed model in a giant plastic bubble, suspended above cityscapes. Arthur thought they were beautiful, iconic—until the pathos of the gorgeous, fashionable woman, forever held separate from the living, breathing environment around her, struck him. 

Arthur strode past the rest of the exhibit, determined to see how Eames was getting on and whether they’d need to pull the trigger on the second level. He hoped not—he was rattled enough now that he’d have a hell of a time holding even the most basic dream together. 

As he passed the men’s room, Eames stuck his head out the door and grabbed Arthur’s arm, pulling him in. “It’s done,” he said in a low tone, head inclined towards Arthur’s. “All we have to do is wait for the music.” 

They stood there, watching each other in the mirror for a few moments, Arthur feeling like he might be beginning to grasp something, but wasn’t able to name it. Eames’s knuckles brushed against his once or twice, but Arthur didn’t move away. His breath seemed to be stuck in his windpipe.

The strains of “Tiny Bubbles” filled the air and Eames cut a look over to him, a sort of resigned smirk. Arthur cast his eyes to the tiled floor as a flush spread over the back of his neck. Eames was humming the tune softly, and when he looked back up, Arthur saw that he was mouthing along with the words. 

_So here’s to the golden moon and here’s to the silver sea, and mostly here’s a toast to you and me._

 

Plus 1.

Eames takes the long way back to his temporary pied a terre in Merano. It’s been almost two weeks since he and Arthur had woken to the voice of Don Ho promising a kiss that wouldn’t fade away. He’s been ruminating over it since Arthur had walked off without a word, gracing him with only a single, long, curious look before he packed up the PASIV and left the site. 

Paying off the architect to fake an emergency had been a bit over the top, he muses. In point of fact, perhaps it had all been too much. He’d overplayed his hand and put Arthur off. An entire museum devoted to… Yes, it had definitely been too much. 

Then again, Arthur _had_ told him to try harder. 

Eames climbs the stairs, loosening his tie as he goes. It’s the oddest thing—he’d actually allowed himself to believe that Arthur’s coy text about the bubbles meant that he’d twigged to Eames’ intentions. And approved of them. Apparently not. 

But if he hadn’t twigged before this last job, he’s certainly put it together by now. Eames shakes his head as he unlocks his door. Not all gambles pay off, he reminds himself. He just wishes that—his thought breaks off before it can get too maudlin, his attention pulled by a faint sound coming from the loo.

Senses on alert, Eames creeps towards the door. Yes, music is playing softly. Not exactly the kind of thing an intruder with sinister plans would do. He opens the door and warm, scented air wafts out along with the strains of ‘Tiny Bubbles.’

“Too much?” Arthur asks, one eyebrow delicately raised, his mouth an uncertain shape hovering on a pleased smirk. 

Eames wants to drop to his knees and sing hallelujah, but he forces himself to paste on a patina of insouciance. At least enough to conceal how relieved he is that Arthur has broken into his home, which is to say—ecstatically so. 

Then he takes in Arthur’s state of dress (naked), position (laid out in his clawfoot bath), and the fact that he’s entirely covered in bubbles. The bottle of bubble bath is perched on the teak bath caddy, along with a magnum of Veuve Cliquot on ice and two glasses.

His face splits into a wide, helpless smile.

“Why Eames, I’ve never seen you so pleased,” Arthur says, his face breaking into its own beatific smile. “You’re practically—”

“Don’t say it,” Eames warns, a crazy feeling rising within him, eyes devouring Arthur’s smooth chest as it plays peekaboo in the shifting foam. 

“Bubbly,” Arthur concludes, and they stare at each other, grinning like schoolboys. Then Arthur looks Eames up and down and asks, “Are you going to stand there all night or are you going to join me?”

There’s only one answer to that question. Eames strips his clothes off in record time and moves the teak tray out of the way preemptively. Arthur watches his movements with an almost feral avidity; Eames feels as riveting as a mark’s web search history, which is to say, extremely and gratifyingly so. 

“Make room,” he rumbles, and Arthur raises his knees in the large bathtub, moving back until Eames can slide in facing him, their legs entangling in the soapy water. They regard each other for another long moment, solemn this time. Eames lets his foot wander slightly, runs his toes along the inside of Arthur’s foot, and he shivers, his eyelids fluttering for a moment.

“What changed?”

 

“I got the message, Eames. Life is short and then you die. All is vanity. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.”

Eames regards him, a warm fondness stealing over his expression. He’s powerless to stop it. Arthur is just so very brilliant.

“Also, I asked Ariadne why you were doing this. She told me ‘because you don’t have pigtails to pull.’”

Eames barks out a surprised laugh, and Arthur smiles, his eyes unguarded. For once. Possibly for the first time.

Eames reaches over to run his hand through Arthur’s damp hair. “It is getting long, though. I like it like this.” Arthur pushes up into the touch and Eames’ cock hardens.

“Do you?” His eyes slide shut and Eames thinks he’s never seen anyone so lovely in his entire life.

“Very much. Can I wash it for you?”

Arthur’s eyes open slowly and he nods, then turns around, causing a certain amount of splashing and sloshing. He settles between Eames’ legs, and Eames gets the shampoo and massages it into Arthur’s thick hair, feeling the scalp that houses the skull that houses that incredible fine-tuned brain he can’t get enough of. He caresses it in long, firm, circular strokes and Arthur groans. 

His hands slip from Arthur’s head down his neck, and Eames kneads the muscles and tendons there, causing Arthur to make more delicious, helpless noises and squirm backwards against where Eames’ cock is rigid with need. Eames tightens his legs around Arthur’s hips, bringing his cock against the small of his back and rocks into him gently while he explores Arthur’s back with his fingers, learning all the little places that make him jerk and sigh and melt. 

His hands drift lower to his slim hips, and then sneak around to where Arthur’s cock is straining up, a beautiful column of tender flesh that twitches in Eames’ hand. Arthur’s head falls back onto Eames’ shoulder as Eames strokes him up and down, twisting and squeezing and noting all the involuntary noises of pleasure he’s bringing forth from Arthur’s throat. Arthur’s hands start to wander, grabbing onto Eames’ calf, reaching up to thread through the hair on the nape of Eames’ neck. They’re both panting and Eames feels like he could keep this up forever; there’s nothing about this that he wants to end.

“God—wait, Eames,” Arthur gasps, still holding Eames’ cheek against his with his hand around the back of Eames’ neck. “I want to see you when I come.”

Eames’ mind races ahead, to kissing Arthur’s mouth, to drying him off and getting a good look at his whole beautiful body, to all the things they could do in Eames’ bed, just mere feet away. He reluctantly stills and releases Arthurs’ cock, then pulls him close, up against his chest. The heat of the moment has not dissipated with the loss of contact, rather it feels heightened, like they’re both waiting, trembling in anticipation of what comes next. The moment carries a rainbow sheen of fantastical possibility, a ripeness that he wants to revel in, for just a little longer. 

Then Arthur turns around in his arms, lying almost on top of him, and they’re nose to nose.

“Aside from the obvious, why did you get so hung up on the ‘bubbles’ thing?” Arthur asks, his voice deep and almost harsh, at odds with the dazed, molten look in his eyes as they scan Eames’ face.

Eames thinks for a moment. _“Because I want to blow you?”_ crosses his mind, but the time for games is past. Although it _would_ be funny. It’s nearly irresistible. The corner of his mouth twitches and Arthur pulls back a fraction to glare at him.

“If you say ‘because I wanted to blow you,’ I swear I will leave you high and dry. I’ll even take the champagne with me.” 

Eames can tell he’s mostly joking, but he realizes that Arthur has asked something quite serious. He takes a moment to sober up from the giddy high he’s riding, so he can explain himself. “Because I wanted to prick you until you burst,” he said, and Arthur bursts out laughing. 

“Oh, not like that!” he says, feeling indignant, but Arthur is rearing back and splashing water in his face, and all of a sudden they’re in a bubble fight in the bathtub and it’s so completely ridiculous that Eames can’t believe it, can’t believe how successful he’s been. Arthur is here, naked and slick against him, laughing and playful and trusting and open, all traces of the uptight, suspicious prig gone.

“You want to prick me ‘til I burst?” Arthur says again, gasping with laughter, his dimples, his glorious dimples like beacons of delight.

Eames grabs his wrists and pulls him in for a kiss to shush him, which then turns heated in a matter of seconds. They wordlessly agree to get out of the bath, and Eames helps him up and out and into a large towel. They dry themselves quickly, keeping an eye on each other all the while. When Arthur’s gets his towel wrapped around his waist, he tears his gaze away from Eames’ tattoos and reaches for the Veuve Cliquot, opening and pouring it with the suavity of a master sommelier. Naturally, Eames thinks, rapt at the sight of Arthur holding out a glass of bubbly to him. 

He takes it, and they clink their glasses together. Neither of them says ‘to you and me,’ but it hovers in the air between them.

Eames drains his glass and takes Arthur by the arm. “Did you give yourself the tour before I arrived or shall I show you my etchings?” he asks, internally desperate to get his mouth on any part of Arthur. 

Arthur smiles at him. “Take me to your bedroom, Mr. Eames,” he says, finishing his drink and letting it clink on the tile with a sound like a starting bell. 

“Avec plaisir,” Eames murmurs, and then they’re in his room, towels on the floor, arms around each other. Kissing Arthur is like a thousand bubbles fizzing through his bloodstream, as though that drink was a blood transfusion and he’s circulating champagne now. 

He breaks off the kiss to say, “I really wasn’t going to say anything about blowing you,” which is technically true. “But I truly would like to. May I?” he asks, one hand continuing to squeeze Arthur’s superlative arse, the other fondling him from balls to tip, causing Arthur to buck into it.

Arthur hums an affirmative, hands on Eames’ shoulders as Eames sinks to the floor and presses his face against Arthur’s belly, trailing kisses down to his groin. The head of Arthur’s cock is glistening wet, and as Eames fondles his taut balls, another drop wells up and Eames licks it up. 

Arthur’s hands trail over his face and their eyes meet, then Eames takes Arthur into his mouth and shows him what he’s been missing, through all these years of cool rebuffs and feigned incomprehension. 

His arse feels like heaven in Eames’ hands, as he grasps it to push Arthur’s cock deeper in his mouth. Long fingers clutching his hair signal that his onslaught is welcome, so he keeps it up to an increasingly desperate entreaty not to stop, don’t ever stop. Arthur’s thighs are shuddering and his cock grows infinitesimally harder before hot spurts of come annoint Eames’ tongue, and Eames’ name passes Arthur’s lips like a plea and a prayer.

“Allow me to clarify,” Eames says once they’re on the bed, running his fingers lightly over Arthur’s smooth torso. Arthur arches into the touch, his eyes closed but his head turning towards Eames’ voice. “For as long as I’ve worked with you, you’ve seemed untouchable. As if there’s a—forgive the analogy—a bubble protecting you, keeping the world at bay. It kept me at a distance, for far longer than I wanted. I suppose I wanted to see if I could—”

“Prick it?” Arthur asks in a voice too thick to be coy, sneaking a hand between them and running his palm up Eames’ cock. 

“Break through,” he says, nuzzling the warm, intimate space behind Arthur’s adorable ear. “I wanted you to notice me, for once, without being able to dismiss me immediately. I didn’t actually intend for this to go so far, but,” he sighs and uses his teeth to deliver a gentle bite, causing Arthur to moan. “I’m glad it did.” 

“Mmmm,” Arthur hums as he angles himself to face Eames fully. “I’ve never been able to ignore you, Eames, God knows I tried. I’ll admit that the museum in your dream made me wonder about what I was missing, and why.” He touches Eames’ face, fingertips trailing over his brow and temple, eyes soft. “I should have known you’d find a way to pester and tease me into your bed.”

Eames shuts him up with another kiss, pressing his still-rigid cock against Arthur’s thigh. “Shut up, darling Bubbles, and let me prick you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to me on [Tumblr](http://www.oceaxereturns.tumblr.com)!
> 
> https://www.historyofbubbles.com/homo-bulla/
> 
> The works of art in the museum:  
> Homo Bulla - A Boy Blowing Bubbles, Bartholomeus Van Der Helst (Dutch Baroque Era Painter, 1613-1670)  
> David Bailly (1584-1657) Self-Portrait with Vanitas Symbols  
> Karel DUJARDIN (Dutch Baroque Era Painter, ca.1622-1678) Allegory 1663  
> Jean-Baptiste Oudry (1686-1755) An Allegory of Air  
> Sir John Everett Millais - Bubbles (A Child’s World) 1886  
> Jean Baptiste Simon Chardin, Soap Bubbles, 1733)  
> GIuseppe Magni, Blowing Bubbles  
> Granate Ruskin Wolseley, Blowing Bubbles  
> Jeff Koons 1988 Michael Jackson and Bubbles porcelain and gold  
> Melvin Sokolsky photography of models suspended in huge plastic bubbles 1963
> 
>  
> 
> Tiny Bubbles lyrics:
> 
> Tiny bubbles (tiny bubbles)  
> In the wine (in the wine)  
> Make me happy (make me happy)  
> Make me feel fine (make me feel fine)
> 
> Tiny bubbles (tiny bubbles)  
> Make me warm all over  
> With a feeling that I'm gonna  
> Love you till the end of time
> 
> So here's to the golden moon  
> And here's to the silver sea  
> And mostly here's a toast  
> To you and me
> 
> So here's to the ginger lei  
> I give to you today  
> And here's a kiss  
> That will not fade away


End file.
